Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. Through that she had to go. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. “So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it.
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